Three hours after dawn they entered the forest. Almost immediately, Vilmos felt the crawl of unseen eyes upon him, but he did not really start to worry until the sun disappeared, blocked out by the forest canopy.
Despite ever thickening undergrowth, Xith maintained a steady pace, trying to stay directed north. At times it seemed as if the forest had a will of its own. Sprawling rows of brambles seemed to close any gaps as they approached and the two would have to travel either west or east until they finally chanced upon a break. Sometimes this distance was only a hundred yards. But more than once, it seemed as if the brambles had stretched on for miles.
“Stay close,” Xith advised for the second time.
“I still don’t understand why we didn’t use the road the soldiers cut through the forest,” complained Vilmos. “Surely it went directly north.”
“Silence,” commanded Xith.
Vilmos turned as the shaman had and saw movement out of the corner of his eye. His heart started pounding in his ears and a lump swelled up in his throat.
“Run,” shouted Xith, pushing Vilmos. “No matter what happens do not look back. Do you understand?”
Vilmos said nothing. Xith twisted him around and stared into his eyes. “Do you understand?”
Vilmos nodded.
The two ran in a flat out race. Trees became black blurs. They no longer turned at brambles; instead they plowed through them with Xith pushing Vilmos ever forward.
Cuts and scrapes on his hands, face and arms, bruises on his knees, Vilmos ran on. He ran as fast as he could. Every now and again he saw black shapes out of the corner of his eye that he was certain were not trees. But it was only when he heard the first tormented howl that he became certain he was running for his very life.
Soon the tormented cries of the unknown beasts came from many directions then gradually the howls grew closer and closer. Xith pushed Vilmos faster and faster, surprising the boy with his seemingly endless endurance.
Nervously, Vilmos glanced to his left and to the rear. His feet lead him to the right—there were no cries coming from the right. Then suddenly the shaman stopped and Vilmos only heard the sound of his own running. He stopped then, turned around, ran back to where the shaman stood.
His eyes grew wide with terror and his heart pounded so loudly in his ears that he couldn’t hear what the shaman was saying. He only knew the shaman was staring into the shadows of the forest.
“They are leading us,” Xith said, “do not let your feet stray.”
The two started running again. Terror helped Vilmos find his second wind and soon he was outpacing Xith.
Coming down a ravine, Vilmos stumbled and fell. Xith picked him up by the scruff of his collar and lead him on. They breached a hill, crossed a stream, ran on in soggy shoes, on and on they raced.
Vilmos was running to the pace of his heart, which was still
pounding in his ears. He stretched his small body to its limits, again surprised at the shaman’s seemingly boundless stamina. More than once he doubled over in pain and fought to catch his breath, and more than once the shaman forced him into movement. Sometimes dragging him by the arm or the collar. Sometimes pushing him. Sometimes just his wild stare was enough to force Vilmos to find his next wind.
Then suddenly they burst into a clearing. A midday sun shining overhead told Vilmos they were safe, they were out of the dark forest. A sigh of relief escaped his lips.
Then just as Vilmos paused to catch his breath, Xith directed his gaze to the other side of the clearing. The forest stretched on endlessly, the trunks of trees fading into the gloomy shadows.
Vilmos tried desperately to catch his breath. “Can we rest, please?”
“Not long,” cautioned Xith, “those beasts aren’t far behind us.”
“What are they?”
“Some things are best left unnamed. To be sure, their masters are the reason the animals of the forest are angry.” Xith’s eyes darted to the shadows. “Run now, run as if your life depends on it, because it does.”
“I need… more rest,” said Vilmos, panting, “can you not use your magic on them?”
“For every one I sent back to the pits where they spawned, two more would come. No, we run,” said Xith, launching Vilmos into a run by pushing him forcefully with both hands.
He ran then. He ran for all he was worth. Fear mandated his every movement.
On and on he ran. Soon he lost sight of Xith, then he stumbled, fell, came up on his feet again. For a frightening moment in his confusion, he thought Xith wasn’t with him anymore, but then he caught a glimpse of the shaman’s brown robe. Exhausted, he no longer ran. He simply plodded along, forcing himself to put one foot in front of the other, required great effort.
Time progressed slowly. Most of the tormented howls faded to distant echoes and now it seemed only one of the strange beasts followed them. Vilmos heard its high-pitched howl sound off to his left.
By now they had gone so far and so deep into the forest and strayed off course so many times that Vilmos thought surely even the shaman had lost his way long ago. The beasts were leading them, forcing them to take an increasingly easterly course.
Vilmos could no longer determine shapes in the shadows. Everything was shadows and dull grays slowly turned black. Night was surely near.
The touch of a hand to his shoulder caused Vilmos to start. He jumped and nearly screamed. Xith whispered in a low voice, “Tie this rope around your waist. It will keep us from being separated.”
Vilmos took the offered rope and began tying it about his waist.
“Follow where I lead you,” said Xith. “Keep your hands out in front of your face protectively.”
Vilmos finished securing the rope. He caught sight of a soft glow from the shaman’s eyes. They were glistening silver once more. “Do your eyes allow you to see in the dark?”
Xith grinned. “It is the gift of Oread to her people.”
Vilmos stretched his sore muscles, and eased the fire away from aching legs, then finally asked the question that had been bothering him for what seemed hours. “Are we lost?”
“The sense of direction of the peoples of Under-Earth is keen. Do not worry, my young friend. Soon we will leave the Forest of Vangar and all of this will be behind us for a time.”
Xith said nothing more, except that they should begin moving again.
Vilmos followed where the pull of the rope lead him, the world around him was now so black that he couldn’t discern anything from the darkness that surrounded him. Not knowing when they would come to a rut, a hill, a ravine, he placed each foot down softly and uncertainly. He tried to keep his thoughts from wandering and think only of placing one foot in front of the other. This was a difficult chore as he fought exhaustion.
The single hunter continued to follow them, howling out at seemingly regular intervals—perhaps telling companions that followed silently that the hunt was still on.
Staring into the darkness and not being able to see anything was at times overwhelming and during those times, Vilmos felt utterly helpless. He could only follow the tugs at the rope and hope that the person tied to the other end was still Xith—for exhaustion made him doubt even that.
His thoughts did wander though, even as he fought to keep them focused on putting one foot in front of the other. He thought of home, the villagers, and Lillath and Vil. Surely if the powerful shaman feared the creatures that chased them, the three villages were in danger. Yes, days of forests separated them, but how far did these creatures roam?
Vilmos answered the question for himself. Far enough to chase a great black bear south. Far enough to make it attack and kill the girl from Olex Village.
He groped his way around a tree that seemed to suddenly sprout in front of him. The ground beneath his feet was now damp. Vilmos knew this because of the thick mud clinging to his boots, making heavy feet that much heavier. Far off he heard the sound of running water as if a stream lay somewhere ahead. For a time his thoughts filled with a longing to drink of its cool waters.
They were coming down a long, long hill when suddenly the rope went slack. Vilmos’ mind filled with alarm. Xith normally signaled with a double pull on the rope when he was going to stop.
Vilmos groped with his hands about his waist until he found where the knot in the rope began. Then he began to take up the slack in the line. When he had pulled in about five feet without the line going taut, he stopped. He was almost afraid to keep pulling. His hands way ahead of his thoughts kept working though and he soon found the end of the line in his hands.
He tried to rationalize. He told himself Xith must have untied the rope from around his waist. Perhaps the stream was just ahead and Xith wanted to tell him this. The running water did sound awfully close.
Bravely, he took a step forward into the darkness, then another, and a few more. The stream was there all right. He found it by stepping into it with a slosh—the water was cold.
“X-Xith,” Vilmos whispered, “where are you?”
No answer.
He whispered in a slightly louder voice, “X-Xith?”
He heard movement behind him and spun about, nearly losing his balance. He saw the dull glow of a pair of eyes about halfway up the steep, forest-covered hill—but the glow wasn’t soft silver.
He stood deadly still. He heard growling now and then a howl, joined by many more. Confusion, exhaustion and panic mandated his actions. Instinct and human nature took over his thoughts. The will to survive became his only objective. Blue sparks danced across his fingers tips without him even realizing it.
The light only served to fill in the images missing from his mind’s eye. Halfway up the hill he saw them, a pack of the creatures that though they looked like wolves he knew they weren’t. No wolf he’d even seen had two heads. No wolf he’d ever seen was as large as a bear.
He slowly backed into the stream. The creatures inched forward. He inched backward. When the waters swirling around him were knee deep, he stopped. The lead creature, the largest one of the whole pack, stood no further than ten feet away from him now. He was suddenly sure this was the beast that had hunted and howled after them while the others in the pack had hunted silently at its side. It seemed to signal to the others to wait as it approached.
Instinct and the will to survive still at the forefront of his thoughts, blue sparks continued to dance across his fingers. He waited, staring down the strange two-headed creature, wondering why it did not attack him, wondering if it could lunge ten feet in a single, swift move using the powerful legs he saw.
He began to back up again, and the creature continued to approach. Each took one small step at a time, and stared the other down. His two eyes matched against the creature’s four, each daring the other to make a move.
The water about his legs was now only ankle deep but he gave it little thought. He dared not waver his eyes from the position they held locked to the creature’s. Soon he found that he was no longer sloshing backward through water. He had come to the far bank. The strange beast waited on the opposite bank, only a few precious feet away.
In the soft blue light, the creature’s double set of fangs glistened white-blue. Two heads meant two mouths filled with up-turned and down-turned canine fangs. Vilmos and the creature stared each other down, seemingly to find out whose will power was stronger.
Something brushed against his shoulder. He let out a scream that echoed long into the night. He whirled about, fists poised ready to fend off the unseen attacker, only to find soft gray eyes fixed on his.
“Xith!” Vilmos shrieked, “Thank the Father!”
“Do not thank him yet,” Xith said, “back up slowly now. The Wolmerrelle will not normally leave such a place, but let’s not give them any reason to think they should.”
“W-Wolmerrelle?”
“Suffice it to say that species from different realms were not meant to mate, for when they do, the result is not for the greater good.”
“Where did you go?” Vilmos asked as he inched backward.
Xith held out something in his hand that the boy didn’t dare to look at. “They were leading us all right. Another pack was shadowing us, waiting until they had us cornered.”
Xith put a heavy hand on Vilmos’ shoulder, indicating they should stop. Vilmos noticed there were no trees around them. He stood in tall grass that stretched to his chest. The lead Wolmerrelle was still staring them down, but now it was a good twenty to thirty feet away. Vilmos groaned and put his hands to his face to rub bleary eyes. As Vilmos did this, Xith lost the support he had been using to keep upright. He staggered and fell.
Vilmos grabbed Xith’s waist to help the shaman to his feet. He felt moisture against his hand. Xith’s robe was saturated from his neck down.
“Don’t worry.” Xith’s voice was weak. He coughed. “Most isn’t mine.”
Vilmos knew then that it was blood he touched. For a moment, a small sliver of the moon shined down upon them as it broke through heavy clouds. He saw the shaman’s prize. It was a head of one of the beasts; up close it was far larger and even more frightening than he had imagined.
Vilmos tended to Xith’s wounds. He did as the shaman instructed and cleaned the wounds against infection then touched the stones of the river to them. “The stream is a tributary to the distant river Trollbridge that divides the Free Cities of Mir and Veter. It runs a long way from Rain Mountain in the center of the forest to where it joins the Trollbridge and helps feed the swamps. Its stones are healing in their own way,” Xith had said, and Vilmos did not question that they were.
For the next several hours, Vilmos lay at Xith’s side, afraid to let sleep take him. Several times as he stared through gaps in the tall grasses to the far side of the stream, he saw the strange creatures Xith had called Wolmerrelle. Xith had been right about one thing; they were best left unnamed. Putting a name to the horror he saw only aided their terrifying grip on his mind. Somehow he was sure that one day he would return to Vangar Forest and when he did, the Wolmerrelle would be waiting for him.
Next time Vilmos knew he would not be so lucky. He would not escape as easily.